


Megatron's Weed Dispensary

by PiermanWalter



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2021-02-13 03:57:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21487975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PiermanWalter/pseuds/PiermanWalter
Summary: Following a decisive Autobot victory, Megatron now works at a drugstore. I was morally obligated to write this.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 9





	Megatron's Weed Dispensary

Just as the first brittle rays of light shone over the horizon, the alarm went off. Megatron hauled himself out of the chair he shut down in last night while dealing with tax forms for too long. Pouring himself a cube of energon, Megatron made his way downstairs to the storefront. His past self would probably hate him. Shrieking like a predacon and promising to tear the entire planet apart just so everyone could suffer as he had, Megatron knew it was his own weakness and incompetence had led to their defeat, and was prepared for death. The Autobots, in all their soft and cowardly ways, had let them live in their new society, making sure he was protected from anyone seeking vengeance for the war, albeit with a few restrictions. Some mercy. He would prefer to be rotting in prison, exiled to some tiny asteroid, publicly executed, or even be forced to become a gladiator again. Instead, the great leader of the Decepticons is reduced to managing microeconomics in a tiny narcotics shop surrounded by too many gawking idiots too frightened to enter his shop and actually buy something.

The few Decepticons that had survived the last battle were also doing about as well as he did. Not destitute, but not allowed any amount of power, which he supposed they deserved. Soundwave works as a building electrician, granted the privilege of internal com reactivation for good behavior. Astrotrain joined one of the newly formed shipping companies. Knock Out became a broadcast host, getting all the attention he wants at the expense of reading out prewritten propaganda drivel. At least they weren’t nearly as badly off as Starscream, who was last seen going to Earth to become a stripper or something and never spoke to them again. In the early days of their integration with society, the Decepticons constantly planned secret meetings and vandalized government property, but now, it had seemed that everyone got caught up in their mundane routines and completely forgot about their past lives.

Speaking of which, a seeker who had been nervously pacing through the crowd finally worked up enough courage to enter the shop. What was his name again? Nacelle. A low ranking grunt soldier who managed to survive the war by being overlooked. Now that the best fliers were dead, he finally had a chance to shine as a professional racer. Looking proudly down upon the Decepticon logo the flyer chose to keep, Megatron said, “Still have the mark? Good. What are you here for?” Nacelle cleared his throat in a long burst of static. “It’s my fault. We had a chance and I blew it for all of you. I thought I could weave through without getting stuck and-” “What happened happened. It’s all ancient history now. Don’t let it bother you.” The last battle was fought in a series of deep tunnels below Cybertron. The cramped spaces were barely enough to stand in, let alone transform and fly. There was nothing a seeker jet like him could do. “Hey. Um… Boss. I’m sorry, okay? If I wasn’t-” “You could have gone to the big pharmacy, but you came here, and my life has gone to slag so hard that this action matters. Ha! You did good.”

Nacelle started nervously chuckling, so Megatron had to throw his head back and guffaw as hard as he could in order to get the nervous flyer to laugh with him. Now significantly more cheered up, he said, “Hey! Because I got hurt in my last race, I just got my Level 3 insurance voucher approved! No more weak stuff for me.” Nacelle peered greedily into the display cases. “I’ll have two centagrams of crystal tetrathyllead, a bottle of uravorite-infused high grade, two octane-cookies, half a kilo-” “You idiot. Don’t get yourself killed. You’d be better off following the doctor’s orders. I recommend 85 kilograms of the good anticorrosives, not the diluted trash they pipe into you in hospitals, taken over the next six weeks. Pick the brand yourself.”

Torn between extreme curiosity towards hard drugs and wanting to obey his leader, Nacelle anxiously shuffled around and took so long to decide on a bottle of Velocitron-synthesized DCI-4A that Megatron started to pity him. “You know what, I’ll throw in one of these for free.” He took out a case from under a desk and opened it to reveal tiny jars of even tinier gems ranging from ice blue to deep green. “A racer like you should know what these are.” Nacelle was shaken from his panicky mood the instant he laid eyes on the little jewels. “Wow! Steamlights! I didn’t know there were any of them left in the city! Most of us racers got scared off using them after Fireflight popped two in a row and crashed into the ground at Mach 3.” Megatron carefully tweezed out one of the smaller steamlights, a tiny blue cylinder barely bigger than a basketball and dropped it in a vial. “This is amazing. But…wow. These things are super intense.” Handing the vial to Nacelle, Megatron replied, “That’s fine. If you can’t deal with the boost and your turbines detonate midair, consider it the price of failing me in the tunnels. Don’t use it until you have fully recovered.” His plan of rebuilding Cybertronian society may have died valiantly, but Megatron was still going to look after his troops the best he could.

Megatron’s good mood was almost immediately ruined by his next customer. Out of all the mecha to come through the doors, it had to be the Autobot poster boy himself, Ultra Magnus. Glitch. “Hello! I’ve been making rounds, checking up on the other Decepticons. I really am glad that you are all doing so well. It is a bit suspicious for a mech of my standing to be here, but here I am.” After the war, Ultra Magnus, the ever-faithful soldier, had much less to do and had let himself go a little bit. His protoform increased in non-subspacable mass enough that gaps appeared in his armor, but not nearly enough to warrant Megatron’s spark crushing insults.

“You morbidly obese son of a Yugo. The only reason I let you in my shop is to marvel at the medical miracle of your sustained existence.” Ultra Magnus cracked a sickeningly genuine smile and said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch what you were saying.” The store made so much money off valuable goods that it could stay running from a single sale per day, so Megatron legitimately didn’t care about losing a potential customer. “I’ll say it again in a way your idiot prototype cyberbrain can understand. You’re a chunk and I hate you.” Ultra Magnus was mildly shocked. “Well! I didn’t expect you to overcome our mutual grievances this soon, so whatever you say is entirely forgivable. Also I met Shockwave today, and I’m glad to say he was very courteous. Do you want to know how he’s doing?” “I can ask him myself. Go eat Optimus Prime’s tailpipe. Maybe that’s why you’re so slagging fat.”

“Don’t act as though you are different from me.” For a second, Megatron thought they were actually about to start fighting right there, then Ultra Magnus winked. “To be fully honest, being here to check on you gives me an excuse to gather a few treats for myself without being caught. You won’t judge, right? I’ll take half a kilo of hypervisco and three bottles of the ferroin Engex. Ooh. Baltic amber oil from Earth. I’ll have fifteen liters of that too, thanks.” Deciding that Ultra Magnus wasn’t worth the effort to continue yelling at, Megatron measured out the orders and accepted the credits in silence.

Megatron briefly entertained the idea of contaminating all of his product with acid crystals and astatine, but decided against it. He might kill or sicken the slagger before he got caught, and then he’d spend a few centuries in prison, then Prime would argue to put him through another course of rehabilitation, then he’d be stuck in another dead end job under much higher supervision. Like it or not, this Primus-damned stall was all he had, and it mattered greatly to Megatron that he got to be his own boss, make his own decisions, and yell at as many customers as he wanted.

After Ultra Magnus left, the crowd outside thinned. It was getting dark. Nearly time to close. Megatron debated shutting the shop early before deciding to stay open in case a few late night partiers wanted to pick up something fun. Megatron was shaken from his daydream about what his legal consequences would be if he ate forty kilos of steamlights and went on a uncontrollable nitro-fuelled rampage when a minibot burst through the doors, vaulted over the counter, and grabbed a case containing sealed vials of concentrated Berserker Button. As bad as it was for the mighty Megatron to be robbed by a random mech, at least this meant he had something to do.

Leaping from behind the counter to the door in two massive steps, barely remembering to trigger the hard light door shield, Megatron unsheathed the energon blade from his wrist and turned to pursue the target. A pathetic weapon compared to his massive fusion cannon, but he was able to get it installed as a necessary tool of his profession. After all, it’s not as if he was lying. With his massive stride compared the minibot’s short steps, the thief barely made it one block before Megatron knocked him to the ground with a flying kick, a bit of overkill for such a tiny opponent. The bot pulled out a beam pistol. Caught up in the thrill of the chase, Megatron nearly decapitated the little bot out of instinct. The blade stabbed into the ground a single meter away from his neck. Interrupted by a regular police patrol, Megatron was more than happy to surrender the thief to them. The little bot had been so terrified the random drugstore he robbed was staffed by none other than Megatron himself that he confessed everything. The Berserker Button was confiscated as evidence, and Megatron was allowed to return home to await further legal procedures the next morning.

Even after the leisurely walk back, his coolant lines still pumped hard, preparing for a death battle that will never happen. Megatron laid face down on the ground for a few minutes, waiting for the feeling to pass. Able to think clearly, Megatron figured that the legal procedures tomorrow would be formality more than anything else, considering the overwhelming evidence in his favor. He’d likely get reimbursed for the Berserker Button, then things would go back to normal. The case was at most going to take three days, barring some stupid Autobot-Decepticon rivalry showing up. Looking back, this was probably not the best day to spew horrible insults at one of the most influential figures of society. Either way, there was nothing Megatron could do about it. He felt a pang of guilt. In the past, he and his army would have bulldozed anyone who dared inconvenience him, and now he was acting like a regular civilian. Just in a day in the life of an ordinary mech. At this point, what did the last six million years mean to him or anyone else?


End file.
